And The End
by Albrecht Starkarm
Summary: Dean is flush with confusion and consternation, or at least something like it, after almost nine months from a very... Special experience.


"Man, I'm just worried about you, all right? Don't get all hysterical over it, okay?" Hysterical? _Hysterical_? Ain't _that_ rich, man? That's just fuckin' Howard Hughes _rich_ , okay? With the damn little punk just- just _patronizing_ me. That's right. Word-builder; every day. He's _patronizing_. With his hands up in some _don't-shoot_ akimbo, and there's that stupid face like a brain-damaged chinchilla, and he just doesn't get it. Don't get _hysterical_?

"Don't get _hysterical_ , Sammy?! Don't get _**hysterical**_? You think _**this**_ is hysterical?!" Okay, okay, maybe there _is_ a little hysteria. But it ain't every day that you've popped the fifth pair of jeans that month.

A new record.

The _fifth_. No sense; no sense at all, man. Ankles groaning and tortured and bloated like a fucking pregnant cow, and you can just stare down at your huge damn belly and roar at the fates, _**Why-hy-hy-hy**_? Put some Creedence on the stereo, and it makes no difference at all. 'cause you can't stand up and dance.

Hell, you can't even _dance_ , man. I can't even _dance_. These hips. These _hips_. There aren't any. And what the hell's with this... Y'know what? I could see the beer gut. Time, shitty diet, okay, okay, maybe there should've been a _little_ more surrender to Sammy's prissy micro-green salads and fewer pies and maybe not the liquid, uh, _everything_ that gets slammed down when the universe is _melting_ into a fuckin' nightmare where you expect to hear the roof peeled off and then see that it's not the _roof_ but just the sky and, hell, there's Zeus there with a lightning bolt to administer a nice high-voltage colonoscopy.

Just one of those lifetimes.

But _this_?

Man, what the _**fuck**_ is this?

"Ah, okay, okay, man. You're not hysterical. I- I don't even know _what_ you are, dude." And there's not much argument with that. It's just... _This_. Struggle up; it's a two minute ritual. Palms clamped on the chair's armrests, the seat something that was never exactly a fuckin' straitjacket even a few months ago and I can _feel_ it.

Hell, man, I can _hear_ it. Flesh yielding; a grudging act of surrender when groaning meat's just _extruded_ out like a sausage being made.

Or maybe freshly minted, pinched off, y'know, which is something _I_ haven't been able to do yet, either. Do you hear me, Sammy? You go almost nine months with the known universe's worst constipation and try to tell _me_ not to be hysterical.

It's like that _King of The Hill_ episode. I'm gonna die.

I mean, _again_.

But it ain't a glorious demise; it ain't a heroic flourish, a blaze-of-glory act of annihilation that'll have my name written in the stars. If there's a constellation, it's gonna look like a construction site outhouse.

 _Dean, The Porta John_. Just follow the North Star, and you'll see it, kids.

The one that looks like a guy with his brains blasting out of his ears while he strokes out from the strain of pushing out what's gotta be a boulder now. Will celestial powers intervene for someone who kicks it shitting out his own brains?

Don't think so.

I'm _pretty_ sure. Elvis, man. _Elvis_. If god, God, gawd, whatever, won't get off his throne for the King on _his_ , it's a pretty sound bet that he ain't gonna for yours truly. I _think_. Would rather not _test_ it; definitely would rather not taste it.

A groan.

"Oh, Sammy, man, this's _bad_. I- I got this weird feeling." Palm on a gut that should be in the Smithsonian. This ain't an ordinary beer gut; it's not even an _extraordinary_ beer gut. It's a legendary thing. "Right here, man. Like that cheese steak that wouldn't pass right for _three weeks_. Remember that, man-"

"I remember when it came out, Dean. That's for damn sure. I'd never seen a shitty roadside motel try to kick out anybody for wrecking the toilets before that. The plunger couldn't push it down." Sammy's just gawping at me now, the little bastard. "Man, are- are you about to blow? You've got that look on your face.

"Don't make me smell it-"

"Sammy! Y-y'gotta help me, man! I can barely move! It hurts like _hell_." And Sammy's giving me a look like a fucking bunny when it finally has the epiphany the bristling soft needles batting at its face are a wolf's lashes. "C'mon, man! Sammy! Sammy, it _hurts_ , dammit!"

"D-Dean, I mean, y'know, I'm your brother. We- we've literally been through _hell_ together, man-"

"Not at the same _time_ , Sammy."

"Exactly. So, uh, you know, maybe I could sit this one out-"

"Sammy, you're gonna be manning the mop if you don't help me to the bathroom." It's coming.

's the only word.

Holy _shit_ , whatever _**it**_ is, it's comin'. And _fast_. Supersonic. It's gonna break the sound barrier out of my damn colon. It's coming. It's coming. It's _coming_.

"Sammy, help me to the toilet, man, or this room's gonna be the new commode!" Oh, yeah. It'll at least be _very_ prettified with some new décor. 'til the walls simply _crunch_ under its bulk, yield like _The Shining_ with something worse than blood rushing out of the elevator.

Wait for the _ding_.

Or somethin' worse.

The walls are a whirl; the universe is a wheeling confusion in heavy stately hardwood, and, damn, it's the weirdest thing. The- the _hugeness_ there is giving _me_ hardwood. Seriously, you can't even believe the _pressure_ , the displacement. Like you're about to start passing a Sherman tank; and there's a tension in the pants that's about to split the jeans through the fly and not just the waistband.

"Sammy, gimme a hand!"

"I _am_ , Dean. You're just- dammit, you're getting heavy. How- how much weight've you gained?" It's mortifying. It's _humiliating_. All this- this _weepy_ psychosis, man. It's about like being on the rag, right? I retract it all.

Every comment; every muttered little missive when a chick has melted down into screaming psychosis over the _tiniest_ most trivial little bullshit comment. I take it back. Emotions are less _that_ and more a brain-damaged chipmunk with a chemistry set. They're just popping off with a brutal rattling cadence; fling a sack of popcorn in the microwave and nuke it with enough venom to reenact Hiroshima in your kitchen, and you _might_ feel something like that; set it between your ears, an' then you'll get it.

Insane.

Jubilant.

Yes!

I can trim a nail without bleeding out into the sink.

Despairing!

Fuck. I'm a _pig_.

Dammit, man, lookit me. No, no, man, a fucking _pig_ would tell me to cut some calories and try Adkins. It isn't fair; isn't fair.

Enraged.

Well, it's not like you need Schwarzenneger's physique to hammer off enough lead in the shooting range to open your own damn mine.

Despairing again. Too fucking _fat_ to bend down and pluck a lost mag off the floor.

Joyous.

Hey, I can actually shoot a face into the _ten_ ring at thirty yards.

Despairing _**again**_.

Fucking _Sammy_ can, too, even if it's with his damn sissy nine.

And now, now? It's just _agony_ ; a pain that's like learning those repressed memories about a babysitter and a bit of doctor were an Elizabeth Dole wet dream. It's a nightmare; it's a _horror_. Clutching my belly, and even massaging it with razors couldn't relieve _this_.

"Ah, shit, it's coming!" The scream from my lips is rocketing up like a Polaris missile. There's...

Heat.

Fuck, it ain't _heat_. It's toppling back in a sauna.

One suggestion. Do _not_ stalk a rusalka in a Detroit banya. Damn. Who knew they could be dudes, too?

Very awkward.

Wading through a schvitz with a fucking gold-headed harpoon, weighed down with about seventy pounds of waterlogged denim and leather and webbing? That's what heroic tales are made of, man; sea stories. This? This is not a sea story. But the _heat_ still is. Pouring.

Spurting.

 _Sluicing_.

Word-builder, man. Use it. Everyone...

"Yargh! Sammy, dammit!" It's a squeal. Yup. A certifiable squeal; throat's already raw with it like deep-throating a black bear.

Totally figurative.

Not like that's from experience or anything.

"Sammy, it..." I mean, the _whole_ fucking bear. "It hurts, man! It hurts _real_ bad. I'm dying, Sammy. I'm dying. I- I'm bleeding; I'm gonna bleed out from my asshole-"

"Damn, Dean, don't be such a drama-queen." _Clutching_ at his stupid flannel shirt. My flannel is _not_ stupid. His? It's _designer_. It's a faggy lumberjack's wardrobe. But it _is_ comfortable on the fingers. I should ask.

I am _not_ a faggy lumberjack. Don't even say that, man.

It's just...

"I can't even _stand_!" Strength _flees_ like scrabbling out of some chick's house with your clothes thrown over your shoulder and her dad's shotgun speaking _very_ unkind words about your fitness for his daughter. It's ignominious.

Word-a-day calendar; right next to the little beagle puppy's snout. I love that one.

Legs tremble; it's shooting down even into my _toes_ , man.

"Sammy, I'm gonna bleed out through my butt. Don't let me go like this, Sammy; don't let me die from an asshole wound. It's not fair. It isn't fair-"

"You can't die from an asshole wound, Dean. Don't be such a baby. You've just- yeah, it's weird, but maybe it's some kind of spell a witch cast on you. Nine months of constipation or something. Hey, did you screw around on a sorceress or something?" Anyone should be scandalized.

Right?

Shit.

It _does_ merit a little soul-searching.

Heart-plumbing.

Uh...

"Did-did I? Man, I can't even remember. Y'know, y'hit a hundred, and it's all a blur after that. Don't worry, Sammy; you won't ever need to worry-"

"Remind me to drop your fat ass the next time I _don't_ need to worry about you getting shit on the floor. Damn. What's that- that _weird_ smell?" Yeah.

It's there.

A shoulder ground against one of the bunker- _chic_ walls; cold concrete that's just _so_ damn cool against my forehead, slopping with sweat, fat pearls rattling at the floor, blackening it beside my boots. Shit.

"What _is_ that smell, Sammy? Your kiddie cologne-"

"Man, you are _seriously_ pushing it. What's with you?"

"Just- just keepin' my edge."

"You don't _have_ an edge anymore. You're a blimp, dude; blimps don't _have_ sharp edges-"

"Oh, shut up. It's- it smells kinda sweet, doesn't it, man?" It's caressing the nostrils. Yeah. Freshly-mown grass.

I mean, freshly-mown grass churned with dog shit.

But there's enough chlorophyll in the coprolite not to just _assault_ you like a linebacker on PCP.

"Damn, you're right. It is kinda sweet, huh? Let's get _your_ sweet ass to the bathroom."

"Sammy, I didn't know ya cared, man." The stupid jibes and jabs. Yeah. 's still my brother, dumb 'chilla or not. Crash through the door and there's never been more joy to see the can. It's just a little unfair, you know?

Cleaned it yesterday.

Obsessive domestic crap.

Can't sit still.

But can't stand _standing_ , either.

Slump down on it and there's just... The weirdest shit; not _literally_ , of course. Just the weirdest damn shit staining my pants. And whatever you can call underwear when even the most charitable soul'd mistake it for a circus tent.

"Dude, I'm a blimp. I- I can't even see my _cock_ -"

"Dean, _I_ don't want to see it. Can you reach the toilet paper? I'd rather just get out-"

"Don't leave me, man! Don't leave me! If- if I die on the crapper, I want _you_ to be there." It's something.

I guess it's fraternal passion.

Or maybe it's just the ricocheting pinball emotions or gas.

Oh, why can't it just be gas?

Clutching at his stupid faggy lumberjack shirt's tails.

"Sammy, _please_ -"

"All _right_. But I'm not gonna watch." Turning pointedly. And who can care? Man, at this point, who can _care_?

"I'm gonna turn on the fan, too. Hope I don't hear it-"

"Oh, man, they're gonna hear it in Tulsa." And it's my prayer that it'll be so fucking _huge_ it'll be less a clinker and more a gong; more the bells of Notre Dame. And it's just... What _is_ that weird juice smeared over my legs, shimmering on my underwear?

The walls dark heavy hardwood; a sharp needling smell of disinfectant.

Bleach.

Knees tremble.

"Oh, dammit, Sammy!" Every _word_ galls the throat. "It's gonna be a _big_ one. I mean, y'know, _nine-months big_ -"

"I _get_ it, Dean. Just- just push it out and maybe we can try to forget this _whole_ day happened."

"I've got _wood_ , Sammy. Is that normal?"

"I don't even want to _think_ abou-"

"Waaaaargh!" You know those Japanese cartoons with the bleached-blond super-warriors from outer space?

Yeah.

It's one of _those_ moments. Incredible _my_ hair ain't levitating and Pam Anderson blond with the scream that's exploding up from my throat.

Distending my neck.

"Sammy, it's fuckin' _huge_ , man! It's gonna split me in half-"

"I don't want the _minutes_ , Dean. Just- just push it out-"

"I don't know if I can, man! I need help-"

"Dude, Dean, this is kinda something you need to do on your _own_. I am _not_ getting the cow gloves and giving you two full hands-"

"Don't even talk like that. I mean, dude, _hold_ my hand!" Whimpering now; everything like strength has just _melted_. It's bleeding away. Where? Where?

Dude, does it even fucking _matter_?

It's anguish; it's insanity.

It's just- it's a turd the size of that asteroid that lets you pump liquid T-rex into your Hummer.

" _Fine_." He's so damn huffy, _grudging_. His hand's still clapped on mine. "There. Happy, Dean?"

"Dude, like I can't believe. This's worse than watching _Bambi_ for the first time." Wincing; straining; knees trembling. A quake becomes a full-body dry heave the _second_ there's...

Movement.

Some twisted weird _insidious_ species of movement.

"W-whoa, dude, dude, it's like a knockin' engine. There's- there's some kinda weird kicking in my gut, dude." Trembling pattering pricks like staring into the sun through a threadbare curtain.

Whoa.

That was totally poetic.

"I- I dunno what it is!" Ants; 'roided-up ants. They're kicking, pounding, _pumping_. Down, down, down. "Sammy, it's..."

"Ah... I- I mean, y'know, just- just, uh, like, bear down and... Push?" He's a moron; a fucking _moron_. Push? This ain't an episode of _Doctor Sexy_.

"I'm not pushin' out a fuckin' _kid_ , Sammy! What's with you?! Don't- yeah. G-good advice, I guess. P-push! Pushing. Pushing."

"Dean, you are _never_ telling anybody about this. I'm serious. If you do, that's it. I've stood by you through- through hell and high water and I mean all of that totally _literally_. But if you tell anybody I stood in the bathroom, holding your hand, helping you through history's biggest dump-"

"Believe me, man. I- I'd rather tell people about that dream I had with Charro and Michael Jackson, Samm-hiiii!" Wow, quite the range. Who knew you could dig a falsetto out of my voice? "Oh, man, it's _coming_.

"It's coming." And, ah, it's...

Don't repeat this.

To _anyone_.

But it's _coming_ , too, y'know? Get it? 'cause it's just something _humongous_ grinding and grating at that electrifying bit of meat tucked _deep_ , and there's more than a little sentimentality, more than a little _familiarity_.

"H-ho, fuck, it's- something _huge_ , Sammy. Sammy, man, I'm gonna _die_ here-"

"You're not gonna die, Dean-"

"Get me some booze."

"I am _not_ getting you booze so you can just shit more _comfortably_ on the toilet. I think this's a learning experience." Prissy little prick.

That's why there's a _crunch_. And his face _warps_ in a pathetic cringe. There. Happy, Sammy?

"Hah! _That's_ a learning experience, Sammy!" Fingers _crushing_ around his. "Hah. Y'like that? Get me some fucking _booze_ ; or an epidural-"

"Dude, you do _nngn_..." A wince twists itself into a damn whimper. "Do not need a fuckin' _epidural_ to take the world's biggest shit." A hiss now. "This's because _you_ have such a crappy diet. And you didn't do _anything_ I told you to do the last eight months, man.

"I _told_ you to improve your diet; you just ate the weirdest crap-"

"W-well it's not like I know _why_ I wanted to have sriracha jelly doughnuts and banana sorbet, man. 's just how my body works. Wah..." It's...

 _Coming_.

More and more and more.

A _crash_ ; but it's not the main attraction. Just a huge wet _spatter_ into the toilet like Niagara Falls and now it's a briny jumble of cum's creamy bleach stink and something weird and hot and biologic and it's just _humongous_.

's a damn presence.

It's more and more and more and more and, hell, it's not just that I'd kill for a night and a morning and a _very_ long shower with a 'sixties Sophia Loren but I'd toss a hand grenade into a kindergarten classroom just to be the hell away from this.

Anywhere and any _one_ else.

"Man, it's- it's _big_. It's so damn big. I can't take it anymore. Put me down, Sammy. It's- it's gonna rip me apart, anyway. It'll be the end; a total blowout. Just put a bullet in my brain-"

"Don't be a drama-queen, man. You're just finally pushing out, uh... You know what? I don't think I _ever_ read about anybody being constipated for more than eight months. I should've looked in the lore-"

"You mean, _you didn't_? Sammy, you Ivy League submoron-"

"Sorry, sorry!" The quirking little smile ain't too contrite; that's why I'm _wringing_ a real apology from the little chimp with a twist and a jerk and that'd be his arm almost coming out of its socket with a gratifying pull and a _pop_. "I mean-"

"What? Did- did you come from George Bush prep or something, man-"

"It didn't occccccur to me." A mewl.

Hah.

Take _that_.

And now it's _that_.

It's here.

"O-oh, oh, oh, _fuck_ , Sammy! Somethin' big's comin'! It's the big one! If- if I buy it like this, remember, okay, man? I- I didn't go out like Fat Elvis. I- I shot myself; a werewolf ate my heart with a side of gherkins; an ex-girlfriend gutted me when she caught me with her super-hot mom and three identical twin sisters!

"Anything but this!"

"I promise, man. I promise-"

"G-good. Good. Oh, oh, _fuck_." Can you sob through a protracted prostate orgasm? 'cause this's what's being explored _now_.

A great vast survey of the insane fuckin' juxtapositions, word-a-day, live it, love it, that the body can hold in its meat an' muscle an' fat an' skin an' everything else at _once_.

Roiling roaring _popping_ off between my ears and behind my eyes and it's lightning sizzling and coruscating up and down every nerve twanging at 'em with rusty bladed gloves and it's fucking demented and absolutely _impossible_ and it's here.

It's here.

Oh, hell, this isn't like pushing _in_ anything.

It's knowing the _inside_ wickedly introduced to the _outside_ ; it's a mischievous diabolic bodily whim, and suddenly, suddenly, breaking, breaking, _snapped_ open, an eggshell being cracked and not under a boot and not against a glass or a dish but with its own simple _gravity_ , twisting and wheeling and at once, at once, it's to know some breed of _impossible_ epiphany.

I know the universe.

The Big Bang.

'cause time and space are being warped on their axis and the Beginning wasn't billions of years ago at all Creation's center.

Wasn't with a _Let There Be Light_.

It's set to sleazy strip club music's accompaniment, 'cause that's the sonata that's pealing up with lurruping heavy bass like the planet's _second_ hugest fart into my mind.

Oh, damn.

Damn.

Damn.

And everything _condenses_.

Life and light. The universe. It's there. It's madness; pure supersaturated _madness_. It's a fuckin' acid-trip psychosis, and everything groans and ripples like grass frozen in an ice-laced hurricane and just _snapped_ , suddenly and irresistibly.

Everything _breaks_.

And everything _brakes_ , also.

Time?

Ended.

It just wasn't.

But there's a shock. A spurt and a spray and there's _another_ merciless orgasm crushing itself out of the flesh like a thunderbolt from the firmament and it's...

"O-oh, oh, _**fuck**_! Sammmmmmyyyyyy!" Enough consonants and vowels? Close e-fucking- _nuff_. It's just- it's _murder_. I'm dying.

I'm _dying_.

Thrashing; heaving; if only anyone coulda been _this_ enthusiastic at the fuckin' AC/DC concert, man. It's a mosh of one on the toilet, raging and convulsing and just gnashing, yammering with a speaking-in-tongues hysteria and something, something, _**something**_ is coming!

"D-dude, what's wrong-"

"It _**hurts**_ , man! It _**hurts**_! S-so fuckin' much!" Roaring at him; both hands now on his shirt. Plaintive.

Man, _that_ is the word.

Pleading.

 _ **Begging**_.

"O-oh, oh, oh, fuck, Sammy, it's _so_ big!" Do _not_ say, _That's what she said_.

Lowing like a tortured calf.

"Aaaah!" And another huge hot heaving _shriek_.

"Dude, stop screaming-"

"I am _**not**_ screaming!" While little Sammy's wincing, that stupid rat-chinchilla face just _twisting_ now with the sound's hugeness. "You ain't heard screamin' yet, Sammy-"

"Fine, Dean. Fine. It's- what was that?"

Yeah.

That's the question.

Fuck you, Hamlet. The real question is not _To be, or not to be?_ It's _What the fuck was that **splash**_?

That _plop_.

It's just...

So fuckin' anticlimactic.

More than that.

And now, now, there's the total annual volume of the Congo River just pouring out of _me_. Rearing, bubbling up, and there's... There's a _brush_ like the planet's tiniest finger on my left cheek.

"Oh, dude, that's- oh, _fuckin' nasty_. How small is this toilet-"

"Uh, 's a toilet, Dean? Wow, you look totally _wasted_ -"

"I wanna be wasted. Get me a drink, man." But there's just... The fuck is all this excess _meat_? Wilting, sagging down now over my knees. "Holy shit, I deflated or somethin'."

A gurgle.

A _cough_.

Blink once.

And twice.

Glance up at Sammy; and he's glancing down at _me_.

You can _feel_ the blink like tape peeled off sandpaper.

"The hell was that, Dean? Was that your gut?"

"Dude, I dunno, but... Somethin' just kinda... Brushed me." Standing.

Well, _jerk_ upright.

Approximately fifty pounds lighter.

At _least_.

"Dude, I'm-"

"Holy _crap_ , Dean." That'd be the word. Every possible connotation.

That puppy calendar.

Amazing.

It's just... 's incredible to have _that_ as some kinda purchase on reality, 'cause, hell, everything else is just _gone_. Whoa. Broken; twisted apart like a Kansas trailer court in an atomic tornado. Amazing film; late-night perfection. But it's _here_. Starin' up at me, cradled, shit, _swaddled_ in an iridescent bassinet in weird and... Damn, let's just be _honest_.

It's _eldritch_ stuff. It should be wriggling with rainbow tentacles and farting dread elder gods and whatever the hell else you can wring out of unpronounceable horrors from dark and terrible parallel dimensions. But the thing _ain't_.

Exactly.

Cooing.

Giggling.

Arms craned up; fat shapeless little fingers clutch at nothing.

"What the _hell_ is that, Dean?" Ain't that the millennium's question?

"Ah... That looks like..."

"It doesn't look like the world's biggest dump, Dean. I mean..." Twisting down; the thing's just _lying_ there, bobbing a bit with some strange little current stirring the weird opalescent juices thickened like Electric Kool-Aid brand pudding.

"Ah, Sammy, is that-"

"Is that a baby?" Let's see. Two hands; two arms; two feet; two legs. A head. And... Yeah, that's not an umbilical cord. Baby takes after his dad, at least. Wait. What? "Dean, does that baby have stubble?" A glance at me; a glance down at the... Well, damn, ya got me, Sam. It's a baby. "Dean?" Askance.

Yup.

That's askance; head twisting like a rusting tank turret to fix me with those glazed chinchilla eyes.

"Dean, what the _hell_ , man? Doesn't he kinda look, y'know, like?..."

"Dude, it's... It's not what it looks like. I mean, you know, it really kinda is, but-"

"Dean, what the _**hell**_ , man? I mean, um, _how_ the hell? It's not, um, I mean... It doesn't _**work**_ that way, right?" Staring down at the little morsel of unreality. "That only happens in that crappy fanfiction they wrote about us, right?

"Right? The ones-"

"I _know_ which ones you're talkin' about, all right, Sammy?" Bark, cough, thrash my hands like a demented conductor. "Y'made me read enough of 'em." So did Cas. Which is...

"So, uh, can you get child support out of an angel, Dean?" I guess you gotta commend the guy for holding back the doubled-over wheezing laughter for _this_ long.

"I hate you, Sammy."


End file.
